


Pride of Place

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Different First Meeting, Alpha!John, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dom!Mycroft, John knows the Holmes brothers from his school years, Light BDSM, M/M, Omega!Mycroft, Scent Adjectives, Sub!John, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: "There is nothing wrong with who you are and what you want. If there were, there would be something wrong with who I am and what I want, and we both know I am never wrong. What is wrong, is that you attempted to seek out your needs without me. And for that, I must punish you."





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I’ve done some reading on cultures that have better descriptors than most others for scents. Which made me immediately think (God, what have I become!?) that the omegaverse, with heightened scents, would also have adjectives for scents like we have adjectives for colors. So you may see unknown words below (that are adjectives describing scents), which I hope are still obvious within the context of the story.

John found himself standing silently in front of Mycroft’s office. He’d been in once before and had been disappointed by its utter lack of character. He understood now, of course, it was only one of many locales from which Mycroft saw visitors. This office seemed especially designed to place its visitors on edge, even uneasy, as nothing of value could be deducted about its occupant.

Which seemed largely unnecessary, as John had known Mycroft since they were both in secondary. John’d lucked out, winning a scholarship to attend the public school on merit. And well, the Holmeses had lucked out simply by having money.

John shook himself from his thoughts and reminded himself that Mycroft had not been intimidating in their youth and John refused to be intimidated by him now. Standing tall, affecting an assertive attitude, John knocked.

“Come in,” Mycroft’s voice echoed out, leaving John annoyed. Surely he was good enough to be properly greeted at the door? Still, to maintain his position of  _ not-bloody-intimidated _ , he opened the door firmly and shut it behind himself without looking back.

“You needed me?” John asked, his wording deliberate to maintain his confidence. Mycroft’s entire office, demeanour, even his damned alepht scent suggested Mycroft’s alpha status, but John knew otherwise.

“I think, perhaps, you’ve gotten it backwards,” Mycroft gave him a wry smile. “Please, sit.” The command in Mycroft’s voice was clear and John ignored the shiver up his spine as he obeyed.

_ Not obeyed, just used common courtesy when visiting the man’s office. _

From his chair, which had been placed at an equal height as Mycroft’s, meaning that John still had to look up slightly to see him on the other side of the desk, John held his self-assured demeanour and gave a stiff smile.

“Dr. Watson, yes,” Mycroft began, “I’m so glad you were able to make it today.”

“I assume the little fiasco at my practice was your doing,” John gritted out. Never mind that just the thought of Mycroft manipulating his every moment furrowed warmly into John’s chest. 

“Of course. I couldn’t let your patients suffer without you. Better they be directed elsewhere,” Mycroft answered. “You do them such a wonderful  _ service _ .”

John glared at the emphasis, trying to deny the truth of Mycroft’s statement with all the alpha body language he could shore up.

Mycroft smirked. Then he opened a desk drawer, taking out a large file and began to speak, “Dr. Watson-“

“Cut the formalities, Myc. You’ve known me forever, just use John.”

“Very well,  _ John _ .” Mycroft looked him over, then opened the file, taking the first item on top of the stack. “I must say, I am disappointed. Once you re-inserted yourself into our lives, I expected that you would come to me to satisfy your specific urges.”

John blanched.  _ Had he been that obvious, even then _ ?

“Did you really think, during all the time you assisted me with my heats, that I didn’t notice? Did you not notice my slowing budding authority? I guarantee that was not a coincidence.”

John’s temper flared at being called out.  _ Damn his perversion. _ Irritated, he retorted, “You mean, when I was your heat whore?”

Mycroft’s left eye gave a miniscule twitch and John smiled. He knew how Mycroft hated the casual terminology that more or less defined their prior relationship. It was a minor win in this conversation, but a win nonetheless.

“If it pleases your impulses to refer to yourself as such, I shan’t deny you the pleasure.”

_ Damn. One for Mycroft. _

Mycroft held the first item from the file in his hand, then lay it down. “Imagine my disappointment when I discovered you were finding such... distasteful partners from which to find your release.”

John looked down and a blush ran up his neck to colour his cheeks. The photo was clear as day, a picture of him down on his knees in a kisly back alley, cane in hand, with some bloke’s – _ Samuel? Steven? Sterling _ ? – thick cock shoved down his throat. The picture was clear enough that John could see his own eyes watering.

Mycroft rapidly laid down a series of photographs, as though he were demonstrating a film reel. Each subsequent photo showed John accepting the alpha’s rapidly thrusting cock, his knot bouncing off John’s lips. All the while, John fucked his own fist eagerly, the submission to another alpha popping his own knot. Through subsequent pictures, it was obvious that John had come as the other alpha had pulled his cock from John’s throat and pulsed wave after wave of copious come over John’s face and shirt.

Once he regained his composure, John began to protest, “I fail to see-“

“Oh, dear John. If that had been your only indiscretion, I might have seen fit to forgive you,” Mycroft interrupted, laying down another series of photos, one by one.

John watched in humiliation as he was draped over a hotel table, buggered by an omega on one end and sucking down an omega cock on the other. As they dropped, the photos played pornographically, with John, the debased alpha, being spit roasted by two spirited omegas.

“They didn’t understand, you know,” Mycroft spoke quietly. “They thought you were experimenting; trying to be  _ enlightened _ by experiencing it from the other side. They didn’t know  _ you _ at all.”

Mycroft looked him in the eye. John tried to hold his gaze but ultimately failed and looked way, embarrassed and ashamed.

“No, John. There is nothing wrong with who you are and what you want. If there were, there would be something wrong with who I am and what I want, and we both know I am  _ never _ wrong. What  _ is _ wrong, is that you attempted to seek out your needs without me. And for that, I must punish you.

“That door there leads to a toilet and shower,” Mycroft nodded in the direction of a door a few feet from the door John had entered. “I expect you to enter that door, shower and cleanse yourself, then return, kneeling nude at my feet to await your punishment. In that room, there is another door that will lead you out of the Diogenes. Should you exit that door, I will assume you’ll be satisfying your needs with your current substandard outlets. That you will pursue your desperate need for domination, for submission, and apparently, your risk of ASBOs considering your more public displays, from others. But if you return to me, I shall punish you, then have you this evening. Do you understand?”

John bit back a caustic reply and considered the offer before him. He ran through he and Mycroft’s prior intimacies, when he thought he was just helping out Mycroft’s heats as a friend and nothing more. When over time Mycroft became bolder, taking control of his own heats; how desperately John craved his commands.

He considered Mycroft’s current position. Specifically how Mycroft presented as an alpha, hiding his omega side from world, but openly displaying himself for John. Was there something they could offer each other? John could never expose him. To do so would expose himself. And if Mycroft fully understood his needs... But could he be fully submissive? Mycroft clearly wanted – and deserved - a proper submissive to satisfy his dominant tendencies. Could he do that?

John nodded in understanding and excused himself to the loo.  _ Was this something he could do? _

-o-

He shut the door behind him, lost in thought. It had been Mycroft who’d woken these desires of his; Mycroft who had ruined him for perfectly normal sex.

Mycroft had presented late; John assumed he was a beta. He’d known the Holmes’ brothers for several years, and while Sherlock had presented his alpha status quite early, Mycroft had always kept that light, kateon scent though secondary – even John’s secondary.

It wasn’t until John’s first year of uni that Sherlock had called him up; clearly disgruntled. John remembered it quite clearly, he was studying again for his maths test to keep up his scholarship. He’d answered his phone and then it was a blur - him running on alpha instincts - until he paused before Mycroft’s bedroom door and inhaled his first scent of omega-in-heat.

Mycroft had called for  _ him _ . John was thick and throbbing before he’d even walked in,  _ and then he walked in _ . Mycroft was on his knees on the edge of his bed, hand clinging to the bed post, sweat drenched auburn curls plastered to his head, the air in the room heady and  omejami . His other hand reached behind him, where he was holding down the artificial alpha cock he was currently fucking himself on.

John barely remembered the next four days.

It hadn’t stopped there. Mycroft trusted John to treat him as he always did, and John had no reason not to – and so for the next few years, John serviced Mycroft’s heats. It was ideal really, as John was swamped in his medical training and had no time for frivolities such as dating.

That wasn’t what John was thinking about, though. His mind drifted in and out of those heat sessions, recalling Mycroft becoming bolder; more assertive. First had come the mild commands; telling John to move here, or touch there. John had always obeyed eagerly, attributing it to his alpha instincts purring with pleasure at being able to satisfy his omega.

Then it was the compliments that stereotypically fell from the mouths of alphas, directed at him.

_ “Such a good alpha for me, John, just like that.” _

_ “You are made for this, John, made to fit inside me so perfectly.” _

_ “Look at you, gagging for it, you can’t even help yourself, can you? All you want is to pop your knot and fucking fill me up, isn’t that right?” _

John reached down to sate his growing need, only to discover that while he’d been reminiscing, he’d already removed his clothing, folded it, and placed it neatly on the chair next to the vanity.

_ Huh _ .

John took it as a sign. A sign to shower as Mycroft had instructed, a sign to - at the very least - see what Mycroft had in store for him tonight.

-o-

After the shower, John looked at himself in the mirror, indifferent as ever as to how he looked. He didn’t particularly care for the scar on his shoulder, but it was there. How he felt about it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He wasn’t quite as fit as he used to be, but he was also nearing forty, so he was just glad his joints hadn’t started to ache and that his sight and hearing were as strong as ever.

In short, he didn’t feel like much a prize, compared to Mycroft. But he supposed that was rather the point. Mycroft was his better in every way, so who better to dominate and control him? Recalling the rest of his instructions, he walked out proudly and knelt at Mycroft's feet, heart pounding but ready to see if Mycroft could deliver.

Mycroft ignored him for a while, continuing to read his files, shuffling one after the other, jotting notes occasionally. John's heart pounded faster, panicking.  _ Had he made a mistake _ ? Was Mycroft truly angry? Would he be cruel, letting John play the fool for his own entertainment?

But soon Mycroft closed the file and took a deep liberating sigh before looking down at John. His façade was nearly clinical, but John could see how Mycroft’s eyes raked up and down his body with distinct want. He stood, stretching his arms above his head. John looked up hoping to catch a glimpse of skin, but Mycroft's professional, formal demeanour never drifted; sadly neither did Mycroft’s shirt or waistcoat. John looked down to his knees while watching Mycroft walk, out of the periphery of his eyes, to the chair and Chesterfield that were placed at the front of the room. Mycroft sat in the armchair, pulled a book from the nearest shelf, then uttered a simple, unexpected, "Come, John."

John startled at the sound of Mycroft’s voice after the prolonged silence and went to stand. Mycroft tutted. "On your knees," he commanded.

John's entire body flushed with the humiliation, but his cock twitched at the thought of crawling to Mycroft. So, as he was prone to in situations such as these, he followed his cock and shuffled over to Mycroft's chaise on his hands and knees. Shame burst throughout John's body, but his cock was harder than ever and he was fucking desperate to find out what Mycroft would do next.

"Just gorgeous," Mycroft complimented him, running a long finger down John’s jaw line.  "I imagine your commanding officers must have found you  _ delightful _ ."

John’s eyes grew wide. Exactly how much did Mycroft know?

"For your punishment," Mycroft bypassed any further explanation on his previous comment, "I contemplated pain, but we haven't formally discussed that. Then I went to your next vulnerability. Your pride. Despite your submissive tendencies in the bedroom, you pride yourself on being a strong, capable alpha.”

John frowned slightly, and Mycroft gave a soft, genuine laugh. "Your pride, John, that kept you from taking my money to spy on Sherlock, even though you know as well as I do he needs a keeper. The pride that kept you from reaching out for help when you needed it most; that same pride that keeps your submissive liaisons in back-alleys and apth motel rooms.

"Ah yes, there's the realization," Mycroft smirked when John's frown dissipated with a nod of his head. “I believe the best punishments come with a lesson. And a lesson you shall learn."

Mycroft picked up a book, the covered embossed with two gold words in a language John didn't think he’d seen before. He slipped off his ridiculously expensive shoes, then leaned back into the soft cushions. Finally, he spoke again, "You ought to be ashamed; these pathetic substitutes were a direct insult to me. And to ensure you fully understand the depth of that shame, you shall serve as my footstool."

John blanched. His instincts, his dignity, screamed at him to stand up, to face Mycroft with the full strength of his alpha power. But it was the very denial of these urges, his cravings, that left his cock throbbing and kept him on his hands and knees.

Mycroft returned to his trademark ambivalence, with a smile hiding in his eyes. He motioned to a spot in front of him, then offered offhandedly, “If necessary, you may use the ottoman next to you for balance.”

John recognized the not-so-subtle gesture to accommodate the stiffness of his injury. He tucked the apth leather footstool beneath him, letting it hold the weight his shoulder had already begun to protest. His cock jutted up awkwardly against the leather, smooth at first touch, but rough from the friction and John knew it would bend painfully if he didn't adjust himself. Just the act of rearranging his cock, forcing it downwards to hang hard and thick past his bollocks and between his legs, caused him to give a small breathless moan. He took a few deep breaths to calm his aching arousal and settled into position.

In the time it took for Mycroft to flip several pages of his book, John’s heart no longer beat heavily in his chest. While the burn of embarrassment still painted him a rosy hue, his breathing was calm and measured. For a moment, John wondered if Mycroft was going to have him do anything other than play table - and then Mycroft crossed his socked feet on John's back.

John choked on his protest as his adrenaline rushed through him. He took a few, deep cleansing breaths, trying to let his subservient pleasure wash over his rutting animal instinct. But the throb of his cock against the ottoman couldn't distract him from being treated as furniture. When Mycroft had said punishment, John had thought of naughty spankings, fur-lined handcuffs. This was...  _ actual discipline _ .  _ To teach him a lesson _ , Mycroft had said. John desperately wished this wasn't affecting him so, but bloody- _ fucking _ -Mycroft was right – swallowing his pride made him itch, made him bare his teeth; he could barely stay still.

"Your thoughts are clear as day on your face," Mycroft murmured without looking up from his text. "If you continue to think such thoughts about me, I shan't have you at all tonight."

John bit the inside of his lip, jaw locking at Mycroft's knack for omniscience. 

"If you focus on your instinct, it will fail you. Focus on your senses - your sight, scent, touch. Cede to me, and I'll seed you in return." Mycroft chuckled to himself.

Focused more on his agitation, John failed to catch Mycroft's pun, but he did attempt to put Mycroft’s suggestion into place. He felt the red rush of indignity, warming the cool leather brushing his chest, the tightness he held in his jaw, that echoed its way down most of the joints in his body. If he kept up like this, his shoulder would pay for it, even with the added support.

With memories of pushing through physical rehabilitation, John inhaled deeply through his nose, taking in the apth leather, the soft katoen of Mycroft's trousers, then breathed out, imagining himself exhaling from the bottom of his toes, up and out, letting the tension leak from him, letting his whole body relax and settle. His task as furniture still rankled, but he focused each breath on not letting it settle and burn in his muscles.

As Mycroft had said it would,  _ damn him _ , John no longer felt the tension attempting to worm its way back through him. His irritation,  _ his pride _ , still grumbled and protested, but his body had descended from fight or flight mode, exploring his senses became easier.

After a time, all of his ire faded away. The plush rug, his cock almost uncomfortably hard against the cool leather, the subtle ache from being on his knees for God knows how long; these sensations filled his thoughts. And in there too, was the faded pride that had been washed away by the act of complete submission. Doing as he was told, being nothing more than an object to be used by an omega’s pleasure -  _ Mycroft’s pleasure _ \- was clearing his mind more than it had been in years. He briefly wondered if this was the “mindfulness” that his therapist had been droning on about. It all seemed so easy right now and he didn’t bother to delve into it any further for fear of jinxing it.

Mycroft shifted and removed his feet from John’s back, only to replace them with the book he’d been reading. A warm wave swept over John as he sustained his utility to Mycroft. John kept as still as he was able as Mycroft walked out of his view. Small noises chimed behind him, but John found didn’t need to, or even care to, decipher them. It simply didn’t matter right now. He heard Mycroft’s footsteps coming back, soft yet deliberate, bringing forth an image of a sleek black panther, formal, quiet, deadly.

Instead of coming back to the seat he’d been previously occupying, Mycroft sat in the love seat behind John. He removed the book from John’s back and replaced it with something cool. After a sluggish moment, John recognised it as a snifter of the aged brandy Mycroft kept on the bookshelf near his desk.

Never speaking a word, Mycroft settled back down into his reading, while John carefully kept still. His single duty - his sole goal - was to keep the liquid steady in Mycroft’s glass. John found it spectacularly comforting to do so. There was nothing expected of him other than complete obedience. No planning, no surprise threats on his life, no clever maneuvering to keep Sherlock alive and out of jail. And yes, though he’d had to quell his pride and tame his instincts, John found himself experiencing a quiet, blissful peace. John’d almost drifted out of his head entirely when he felt it. Soft cashmere brushing softly against the engorged length of his cock. From Mycroft’s new position behind him, he had ample access to gently caress John’s length with his socked foot, pressing it against the against the cool leather. John bit back a gasp from the conflicting soft warmth and leathery chill, hyper-conscious of keeping Mycroft’s glass steady despite the goose flesh rising over his body. 

Mycroft ceased, taking up his glass for a drink. John relaxed, but only for a moment, before Mycroft replaced the liquor on his back and resumed stroking John up and down. John felt the soft fabric slide up to the base of his cock, then fondle his scrotum, teasing his testes back and forth, then sliding back down to the tip. John wanted to gasp, to pant through his arousal, but instead caught himself and took a large even breath; the latter being more conducive to keeping the glass on his back level. 

John continued to focus on his steady breaths while Mycroft continued to read, sip at his drink, and tease John’s cock in a random pattern. After a time, though John could no longer know if it had been five minutes or two hours or anything in between, he felt his composure waiver more than he could hide. Each touch of Mycroft’s sent shivers down his spine, his thighs and arms quivered involuntarily, and his steady breaths became hitched and broken.

Even in the rests, the pauses in which Mycroft turned a page or sipped at his drink, John found his body was slowly losing control. He couldn’t tell if it was a particularly magnificent torture, or the cruelest rapture, but John didn’t have the capacity to tell the difference. Everything in the world boiled down to Mycroft’s effect on every inch of his skin, flushed and primed to the softest sensations; even the gentle currents of air as Mycroft shifted in his seat caught in his throat and electrified his nerves. John swore he could even feel the heat of Mycroft’s body, the pulsing of his heart, the expansion of his lungs.

The glass lifted from his back once more, though John could no longer control the gooseflesh over his body nor the way he trembled from head to toe, and the book was set down again. The heavy tome radiated heat from being held by Mycroft’s hands and John was desperate to feel that heat against his flesh, against his arms, his chest, his back, and god-willing (or in this case, Mycroft-willing), his cock.

The heat left suddenly, John feeling bereft, and he heard the quiet thud and slide of the book being returned to the shelf. His heart began to race, excitement thrumming through his veins, craving that now, after all this time, this discipline, this exquisite torture, that now he might be rewarded. He heard a door open to his left, where he’d been fairly certain a door hadn’t been before, but nothing seemed quite real, or perhaps, too real at the moment. 

Mycroft paused, and spoke in a low tone, laced with command, “Come now, John.”


End file.
